Lost & Found
by jennygrrl
Summary: He’s always a little lost. Maybe he always will be. But the morning after, he finds reason to hope.


**Title: **Lost & Found

**Pairing/Characters: **Logan & Veronica

**Rating: **NC-17

**Spoilers: **Through Season 2

**A/N 1: ** Once again, I had an amazing beta for this piece. It was written for a community in LiveJournal called Loveathons.

**A/N 2:** I'll give fair warning here. This piece starts off dark and works its way towards the light. It pretty much runs the gamut with brief mentions of rape, murder, suicide, and child abuse. You also get a few epiphanies, a "first", and (what I'm hoping is) some damn hot phone-sex.

The bottle hung loosely from his fingers, the glass having long since absorbed the warmth of the setting sun, making the liquid inside hot and acrid. Painfully, he swallowed a large gulp, a look of disgust twisting his lips as the tawny fluid scorched its way down his throat.

He had been like this for hours. Sitting in the back of the Xterra, his long legs hanging over the bumper, letting the sun bronze his skin and the alcohol numb his mind. It had been three days since Veronica boarded her plane to New York, leaving him with all the shit he had to evade; and what a list it was.

It started with avoiding Dick; because what the fuck do you really say to your good friend when you suddenly learn his brother is responsible for killing a bus load of kids, blowing up a plane transporting the town's morally-bankrupt and sexually-depraved mayor, leading straight into an encore of trying to not only kill the woman you're in love with, but you in the process as well!

What the hell do you say to him when he looks you in the eye and wants to know what you did to talk his kid brother down off the ledge? Especially when all you could think of was the fact that his brother'd raped your girlfriend and possibly killed her father.

The alcohol had almost convinced Logan that he _had _tried, but it was bullshit and he knew it. If he had wanted Cassidy to come down off that ledge, he'd have made it happen. The truth was -- no matter how fucked up it sounded when he was drunk enough to let it sneak in -- he hadn't wanted Cassidy to come down. What he'd really wanted was to protect Veronica to remove Beaver from the equation entirely. Beav's valiant leap off the Grand had taken care of that for both of them.

"Fuck," he groaned, running the hand not wrapped around the sleek, glass bottleneck through his hair. That wasn't exactly the whole truth either. Yeah, he'd wanted Beaver out of the equation, but he hadn't wanted him dead. He'd tried to stop him… he just hadn't been able to think of a reason Cassidy shouldn't jump, and he hated himself a little for that. He hated himself because he couldn't rationalize with Cassidy when Cassidy'd needed him to, because he couldn't simultaneously be the hero for both Dick's little brother _and _Veronica, and because he couldn't spare any of them the pain and the anguish left in Cassidy's wake.

Yes, forgetting these things were high on Logan's list of priorities, so he drank himself in deeper, figuring the harder the alcohol burned, the more likely it would to scour his conscience clean. Really, he'd welcome any kind of reprieve from Dick and Beav. Something to check the tabloid reminders of his murderous, murdered father and drown out the demon habitually reminding him his mother had taken a swan dive off the Coronado Bridge, leaving him behind.

And that's what it all came down to, wasn't it? People who'd left Logan behind to pick up the pieces of all they'd ruined; they brought the whole world down around him, leaving him all alone to deal. He didn't really want to be pissed at them all for doing it, either. He wanted to bury it or purge it, but, either way, forget it ever happened to _him_. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

He was still pissed as hell at Lilly. She'd given him way too many reasons not to be, but he never knew where to start when it came to her. She'd fucked his father for Christ's sake! The same asshole that had, more than once, left him beaten and bruised.

Lilly had known who Aaron was; there was no doubt in Logan's mind. How many times had she circled her fierce tongue around his bruises, clawed at the still-fresh whip-marks, trying to rip open the seams? Lilly loved him bloody and raw, vivid pain shining in his needy, starving eyes.

She'd known, and still she'd fucked Aaron. Logan had watched the tapes! He'd seen her award-winning, consequences-be-damned smile, loving every minute of it. Maybe she was planning to use it as ammunition to fuel Logan's nascent hatred of her. Lilly always got off on the drama and Logan had learned the hard way that when it came to pressing his buttons, she'd stop at nothing to get a rise out of him. It would have been just like Lilly to go out like that in their relationship -- out with a bang -- out with an ashtray blown right through her pretty fucking skull!

Logan didn't want to hate Lilly for betraying him, for being such an unbelievable bitch, but when the liquor danced through his veins, he embraced it. Lilly'd taught him his heart could be bought on the cheap and sold fast, sans a backwards glance. Logan, for all intents and purposes, had outlived his usefulness in her life, and she'd kept on going, ripping his heart right out of his chest.

Silently, he raised the bottle, toasting the bare strip of beach in front of him and taking a heavy swig. "Here's to you, Lil."

He didn't really want to be mad at his mother, either. He had always tried to be the good son, struggling to understand why she never stopped his father, no matter how badly Logan needed her to make Aaron stop. He never really blamed her for the pills and the booze and the horrible secrets she'd made him keep. But, in truth, he was pissed at her; angry that she'd broken the promise she'd made when he was seven years old.

Soothing his hair back from his fever slick forehead, she'd whispered to him, her breath whiskey-sweet, promising she'd never leave him. She'd promised, and she'd lied. He knew it was stupid to hold her accountable for something she'd said ten years ago, but she'd made him believe her; she'd made him think they weren't mere words uttered to soothe a sick little boy suffering with scarlet fever. With every fractured, self-serving, drunken promise, his mother had taught him the meaninglessness of commitment and the emptiness of her promises of personal responsibility.

Once more, as the beach became shadowed in hues of dark blue and the water rippled a faint gold, he tipped his head toward the fading sun and drank, receding deeper into the Xterra. "And, to you, Mom."

He sat silently for a while, kicking his feet against the wheel well, flexing the muscles in his thighs in an effort to saturate them with the poison from his bottle. Logan was cursed with a circular mind, and even though his only job today had been to forget about everything that had ripped him in two, he'd come back to the beginning. The third, and sharpest point on the triangle – his father.

What the hell could he say about that bastard? Aaron Echolls was the only person he'd never fought not to hate. Hating Aaron actually made him feel good, or as good as a nine year old kid could feel with Daddy looming over him, cigarette in hand.

"You're going to learn, Logan. You're gonna learn." And fucking Christ had it hurt. For his mother's sake, for Trina sake, for the sake of the fucking house staff, he tried to keep quiet; to just shut his eyes and lock away the agony, because it would be over soon and he was strong. He'd be a man. He'd take the pain, gritting a small whimper through his teeth, exhaling slowly through his nose, counting the seconds as they ticked by, one-by-one, from the fancy anniversary clock on the mantle in the old man's office.

He was nine years old. Eerily calm, his father stood over him, pulling the glowing ash away from Logan's blistered forearm to look at his handiwork. Logan still had that scar. He still had most of them; angry, seething badges of his father's disgust at Logan's continued autonomy, despite Aaron's best attempts to break him, to crush his spirit and his will. Some days, Logan thought his father was trying to teach him death wasn't such a terrible option. Logan's significance was cracked on the surface. By his father's assessment, he'd never be worth a damn. Maybe that's why Aaron was so hell bent on destroying everything Logan cared for.

"To you, you prick! May you rot in hell."

The pain poured out of Logan in waves, sloshing back into the bottle with his spit, doubly souring the aged substance. His mind was reeling from the booze and the inner dialogue and after another heavy pull, he admitted, finally, that he was somewhat pissed at Veronica, too.

There was still a tender place in his chest that ached when he thought back to the day he'd found her on the beach, when she acknowledged she'd handed him over to Lamb. When she'd accused him of killing Lilly. Okay, so he hadn't been exactly honest with her, about his alibi or the fact that, on the day of her death, from his vantage point across the street, he'd watched Lilly cavort at the car wash. But shit! Apparently, it'd never crossed her mind to think he was incapable of murder. Even now, after the incident at The River Styx, and the tragedy on the rooftop of the Grand, she still didn't look at him with complete trust. Like she could count on him, or believe in him, although he'd been desperately trying to make her see that she could.

That's all he really wanted now, for Veronica to see him, to see past his Logan-Echolls-is-larger-than-life façade, to view the bruises and the pain, to want to touch him, to be there for him because he needed it. But she'd stepped onto that plane and left, and maybe he shouldn't blame her. She'd had her share of trauma too. Christ, he'd been responsible for at least half of it. He'd been so horrible after Lilly's death, such an asshole when her father went after the Kane's.

In reality, he considered as he pushed up off the black exterior, his feet settling into the sand, he was lucky that Veronica was even willing to give him the second chance. He thought of her words before she'd left him at the airport, "It's going to be alright, Logan. I'll be back in a week, and everything will be okay." Her eyes had been filled with as much comfort as they could hold, but still he worried.

He knew he sounded pathetic when he'd asked if she really intended to come back from New York, but it wasn't his fault. Running was Veronica's modus operandi, and the idea of her bolting again the second things got messy scared the shit out of him. Distantly he wondered if he could ever convince her he was worth staying for.

"To you, V. I miss you."

The tide turned and the waves rolled back over the sand in a hypnotic cadence. The sound filled him, much like the alcohol teeming in this bloodstream, 'til he was burdened by both, unable to shake free of the spell of either. He stood ankle deep in the ocean, the warm Californian breeze brushing his skin, before wading out a little distance from the coast, the water caressing his shorts. He lost his bottle; it bobbed up and down on the surface of the water until another wave swallowed it whole. Momentarily, Logan mourned the loss.

The water was almost to his chest when another wave surged toward him and threw him onto the beach. The ocean didn't want him either. The paradox made him double over with laughter, his arms wrapped around himself, laughing until there was nothing left but tears. The pain washed in, flooding his lungs with a burning sensation that made it hard for him to breathe. For a brief moment, he allowed panic to seize him; doubt and fear snuck in unattended and played havoc with his mind. All of the _what-ifs _ caught up with him, and even though he could have easily succumbed, it ebbed, leaving him flushed and tearstained.

Lying flat on the cooling sand, it was hard to hear over the thundering clash of waves, so he was startled when an unexpected and harsh pant echoed near his ear. Two seconds later, a large, wet tongue met his face and he sputtered, pressing his hands to the warm body above. Backup.

"Logan?"

It didn't matter that it was almost dark and all he could see was the shadowed outline of a man coming towards him. He'd have known that voice anywhere - Keith Mars.

"Hey," he tried casually, begging God, or whatever deity existed, to keep the slur out of his voice.

"What are you doing here?" Keith leaned down to offer his hand, hoisting Logan's drenched body out of the sand.

"I was just…" he began, but couldn't really think of an explanation to encompass what he'd been doing. It had definitely involved wallowing; drowning his sorrows; missing Veronica. But the alcohol made it difficult to articulate.

Despite the darkness, he felt Keith scrutinizing him. Logan was sure Keith could smell the alcohol on his breath, so he did the only thing he could think of, started towards the Xterra. "I don't really know what I was doing, but I should probably be on my way."

"Logan," Keith's voice was apprehensive. "Maybe you should come upstairs for a minute. It's late, and I'm not sure you're in any condition to be on the road."

Ahh, fuck. Upstairs with Keith Mars. The man who'd thrown him out of the house when Logan'd lost his temper after Keith's daughter had shattered his heart. The man who'd caught him on one of the worst nights of his life, just after he'd degaussed the X-rated version of the Lilly and Aaron show, leading to his father's acquittal. The man who didn't trust him, and probably never would; who owned more than one handgun and undoubtedly knew how to dispose of a body.

"You coming?" Keith smiled nonchalantly, Backup already padding toward the stairs.

"Sure," he answered, following behind, hoping his "condition" wouldn't be one more black mark in Keith's book.

**----**

Inside the apartment, the air-conditioner worked overtime, chilling Logan to the bone.

"Hey, you're shaking. Why don't you put these on?" Keith tossed a pair of sweats and a t-shirt into his waiting arms as Logan hung awkwardly by the door.

"Thanks," he smiled, ducking his head as he moved in the direction of the bathroom. He really was shaking, but he wasn't convinced it was due to the wet clothes and cold air. There was something intimidating about Keith… Mr. Mars. Keith had never suggested Logan address him any other way. _Yeah, Mr. Mars, right. Definitely not dude. _ Logan's mental list was growing as he added to it trying not to piss off Mr. Mars.

His musing was interrupted by two rough raps on the door. Logan jumped. "Hey, I just wanted to tell you, if you want to take a shower, you'll find clean towels in the linen closet."

"Thanks," he hurried, taking in his appearance in the mirror. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, and held a somewhat dreamy glaze. His hair stuck up in back, sand plastered into both sides. He looked like shit, and God, was he drunk. Drunk but trying desperately to sober.

He stripped his shirt over his head, carefully setting it on an extra towel from the cabinet, pulling his board shorts from where they had been plastered to his skin. He was very cautious, trying not to leave half the beach on the tile floor.

He wondered, standing naked in the middle of the Mars' bathroom, if Veronica would hate him for how foreign he felt in their home. It wasn't just that he was out of place without her, but, to him, the fixtures, the surface materials, pretty much everything was alien. In Logan's world, everything sparkled, and was very, very expensive. The faucets were brushed chrome, the tile polished marble, and all the hardwood was undeniably authentic. The chandeliers dripped with crystal, the fabrics were hand picked from New Delhi or Milan, and the thread count was never under three thousand.

That's the way things were in his home – bright and accosting – no dingy corners or bad lighting, pressed laminates or particleboard; nothing to detract from the fabulousness of stardom, the hundred-thousand-dollar, mile-a-minute extravaganza of showbiz. But no matter how much it shined, it was filthy beyond the luster. Maybe that's why standing in the middle of someplace so real was so arresting for him. Nothing here was hidden. The dirt was in plain view. Things could be simple and inexpensive, because that's the way people lived; cheaply, reasonably and… happy, even under the surface.

Logan turned the water on, watching it spring forth from the showerhead. He climbed in and let the gentle pressure caress his body as he adjusted to the temperature. A small corner caddy contained three bottles of shampoo, two types of conditioner, and a few smaller bottles of pink and lilac and some strange color of green. Veronica floated through his head again and he smiled, skimming his fingers across the little containers, questioning whether one of them smelled vaguely like marshmallows. In the end, he settled for the most masculine of the scents and did his best to get the sand out of his hair.

He had just braced his hands solidly against the wall, his eyes shut, his body relaxing, when another knock broke through his momentary calm. He could barely make out what Keith was saying, something about the water, when it suddenly turned violently ice-cold. Logan shrieked and literally jumped out of the tub, hopping, wet and naked, towards his towel. Outside the door, he heard the clearly discernable sound of Mr. Mars' laughter.

When Logan emerged, he was dressed in a Sharks t-shirt and orange sweatpants two-sizes too short. He wanted to laugh at himself. It wasn't his best look, but it felt good to be warm.

"Hey. Sorry about that. We're still waiting on the Super and he keeps promising, but…" Keith shrugged, looking genuinely amused.

"No problem. Categorically the best way to sober up." Logan raised his brows and added a large smile, hoping Keith would take it as he intended.

"I'll bet," Keith laughed, moving towards the refrigerator. "Have you eaten?"

"Today?" He paused, squinting, trying to remember if his day had actually included any sustenance other than the liquid variety. "No."

Keith tsked and stood in front of the open door. "Peanut butter and jelly? Grilled cheese? Egg salad?"

"Peanut butter and jelly," he smiled, seating himself at the island as he watched Keith take two plates down from the cupboard, pull butter knives out of a drawer and twist off the tie on a loaf of white bread. The flurry was relaxing and homey, and an inexplicable warmth spread across Logan's chest. "Peanut butter and jelly reminds me of my mom," he said suddenly, without even realizing what he was going to say. "Not that she would make them," he continued nervously, keenly aware of Keith's watchful gaze. "She'd, you know, she'd have someone make it for me… after school."

"For you, huh?" Keith's eyebrows shot up and he smiled, sliding Logan's plate to him and handing him a knife. Logan looked down at the two waiting, bare slices of bread. "Time to start doing for yourself, son."

Logan paused a moment, looking at the proffered knife, considering Keith's words. Part of him wanted to be insulted, but instead of taking offense, he simply jammed a knife into the peanut butter and spread it unevenly over the bread. Keith followed suit with the jelly, both exchanging jars. Finally, they ate. As the peanut butter stuck to the roof of Logan's mouth, Keith reached into the fridge to remove two cans of soda.

"Thanks," he said, taking one of the cold, aluminum cans, his tongue prying the tacky substance from the top of his mouth.

"You know, Logan. I know what you did for Veronica." Keith's sudden change of demeanor surprised Logan and the earlier unease returned to his muscles, inching its way up his spine. "Not just up on that hotel roof with the Casablancas boy, but what you've done for her at other times, too." Logan's face conveyed a messy contrast of doubt, guilt, and muted pride. He wasn't sure he wanted to have this conversation, but Keith's countenance remained cool, so Logan tried to relax. "If it wasn't for you… well…"

The sentiment hung heavy in the air. The "well…" really was the worst part for both of them. Had Veronica ever mentioned the incident at The River Styx? Had she been honest enough to tell Keith that one of the Fitzpatrick's had slammed her on a pool table, and Logan had had to pull a gun in order to get her out safely? If she hadn't, he certainly wasn't going to mention it.

"Why?" For a second Logan's mind spun, trying to process all of the different implications in Keith's one tiny question. Why had he saved her? Why had Cassidy done what he'd done? Why did this shit-storm never seem to stop? His hesitation was obvious because Keith added, "It doesn't really matter. I'm just grateful."

Logan looked down at the remaining crusts on his plate. He wanted to answer the question his way – to tell someone aloud, even if it was Veronica's father, why he'd put his life on the line for her. But the moment passed too quickly, Keith screwing the cap on both jars, leaving Logan feeling awkward and useless.

Once Keith finished sliding Logan's crusts into the garbage can, he turned to him once more. "Has Veronica ever mentioned her mother's drinking problem?"

Logan looked down at his hands folded in his lap. Lianne Mars' troubles with the bottle were almost as public as his mother's. Logan had even used it as ammunition against Veronica once-upon-a-time. "Not really," he responded uncomfortably.

"If you care about my daughter half as much as I think you do," Keith emphasized with an arched brow, "you'll understand why Veronica doesn't need any more of that in her life." All Logan could do was nod, his expression as solemn as their conversation. "I think you know what I'm trying to say here, Logan. Maybe it's time for a change?"

Keith paused to look Logan in the eye. Logan bobbed his head again, considering the words, trying not to let them settle in his brain as undeserved judgment. At least Keith had thanked him for saving his daughter's life and had, to some degree, acknowledged Logan feelings for her. The dynamic of their relationship, if they ever had one, would probably always consist of Keith Mars putting him in his place, and Logan either rejecting it or learning to accept it. Maybe Keith was right. Maybe it _was _ time for a change.

"Good." Keith rubbed his hands together over the open garbage can, brushing away the crumbs. "So you'll stay here tonight, sleep in Veronica's room." The offer didn't seem like it was up for discussion, so Logan simply nodded.

Her room smelled just like her, and wound up in her sheets, he missed her even more. The linen was pale green, the mattress soft, and a crazy orange pillow made of some shaggy fabric insisted upon tickling his face. It took all of his strength not to look through her things… Veronica-things… but his mind and his body were decidedly ready to shut down, and he fell asleep with his leg twined over her green sateen comforter, his arm draped over one of her pillows, spooning it against his stomach.

If he'd been dreaming, he didn't know it. The faint, but unrelenting sound of his cell phone radiated from the floor and he floundered around, desperate to make it stop. He hadn't even opened his eyes when he held it in his palm, flipped it open with his thumb, and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Good morning, starshine," she chimed, sounding charmingly effervescent. The crisp sound of her voice made him shudder, and he stretched out contentedly against the mattress.

"Good morning yourself. God, what time is it?" He took a moment to drag his fingers across his eyes before opening them, turning toward what would normally be his alarm clock… if he were in his room.

"Mmm, about eleven your time."

"Shit!" He exclaimed. The starkly shadowed interior of Veronica's room became clearer as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Suddenly, the memories of where he was and what he was doing there hit him full force.

Her light laughter greeted him and he pushed himself up slightly in her bed. "So where are you?" she asked; he could hear her smile.

"Your bed. Without you in it. And it's a damn shame." He smirked, brushing his hand through his tousled hair. "Your dad called you, didn't he?"

"Late last night. Said he'd found something strange washed up on the beach. I was thinking pirate gold, or possibly a treasure map _leading _ to pirate gold. Imagine my surprise," she was still smiling and the reverberation dripped sugar-sweet, its resonance deeply warming him. It was short-lived as her light tone changed to one of concern, "Rough night?"

"Maybe just a little, but I'm feeling better now," he smiled into the receiver. "I'm actually contemplating how angry you're going to be when you find out what I left on your bed sheets." Settling for his usual rejoinder gave Logan one less excuse to run headlong toward his thoughts from the night before.

"My bed sheets?" she squawked comically. "What did you do to my bed sheets?"

"Only kidding, Veronica, I'm only kidding," he chuckled, smooth and mellow.

"Yeah, sure you are. Hand-check, buddy-boy!"

"Mmm, well, one of them is holding the phone and the other…" he trailed off suggestively, even though the other rested innocently on his abdomen.

"Ahh, tell me about this," she challenged, hesitating for effect, "other."

"It's on my… rock… hard… stomach," he accentuated the words playfully.

"Now _that's _a shame," she mocked. Even though her voice held amusement, it was tinged with eroticism that shot straight through him.

"Did you have someplace else in mind?"

"Possibly, though, where I'm at, it's a little hard to talk about." Veronica was definitely smirking.

"Mmm, there's nothing little about it, Ver-on-ica," he said, purposely drawled her name, letting it play seductively across his tongue.

"I think I'm going to require confirmation, Mr. Echolls."

"Confirmation, huh? Where's your stash of spy cameras? I'll see what I can do."

She laughed again, but it was breathy, and when she spoke her voice was low. "I'll take your word for it, just this once, but you're going to have to be convincing. Unless," she hissed the final consonants, defining the challenge, "you were just speaking in sweeping generalities. I wouldn't put it past you."

This was surprising. Prior to their break-up, she'd never been so overt, but this was definitely explicit. All his blood spontaneously changed direction, coursing through his body, flushing him with new heat. It provided the perfect enticement for his hand.

Under the covers, his hand snaked beneath the elastic band, settling around his hard cock. Slowly, he worked his fingers up and down, applying varying degrees of pressure over his shaft. "Evidence to the contrary, Mars. Definitely... not... little," he emphasized with a long, wavering sigh.

He paused for a second, listening for her reaction, keenly aware of the hitch in her breath as she exhaled and realized where his hand was. He waited again, situating himself on the bed, shutting his eyes to the sound of her quivering breath. The silence seemed to stretch before them, and he greedily absorbed every tremor from her lips. Finally he broke their standstill and spoke breathily, "Was that enough proof for you, Veronica?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more." He could almost feel her trembling.

Sinuously, he drew his hand down his cock again, rotated it back up, and repeated the action twice more before elevating his hips from the bed to slide his briefs down his thighs. This part was easy, it wasn't as if he hadn't touched himself a couple of thousand times before. Logan knew his body, knew exactly how to please himself, but doing it on the phone, with Veronica riveted and breathless on the other end, that was new. The thrill of it created an intensity that sizzled through his veins. "Tell me what you want," he whispered hoarsely.

"You know what I want," her voice was uneven, shaky around the edges. Even though he couldn't see it, he was sure she'd taken her bottom lip between her teeth.

He let his hand crawl up his hard, hot flesh, dropping it to tighten at the base. "Say it." His inhalation was labored, his muffled breath expelled in short gasps as he waited for her to answer.

"Please, Logan."

"Please what?" he softly questioned over dry lips, slipping his tongue out to wet them. God he wanted her to say it. Just imagining her speaking the words made his dick jerk in his hand. "Say it, and I'll do whatever you want."

"Just enough rope to hang yourself," she murmured, and although she was toying with him, her voice was laden with desire.

"Say it," he commanded with a low rasp.

The next utterance from her mouth was simple; one syllable, four letters, and incredibly safe, but that didn't stop it from being charged with so much sexual tension that he nearly crawled out of his skin. "Come."

His body was already on fire, and acute sensations rippled through his abdomen, coiling around his limbs. He used his right hand masterfully, tightly wrapping it around himself, coaxing it over his rigid flesh, his hips rising toward the friction. He wanted to be slow, Christ, he wanted to draw this out, but when he sighed, so did she, when he grunted, she whimpered, and a vision of her played behind his closed lids.

In his mind she was on her hands and knees, her lips parted over him, ready to take him in, smiling that dangerously delicious Veronica smile. He could almost feel her hot breath on his cock; see her warm mouth gliding down to swallow him with liquid-heat. He gulped, his muscles shaking slightly. "Oh God."

Her breath shivered over her lips. She was obviously enjoying his performance, and the consciousness of it made him feel like he was being pulled inside out, lost somewhere between dueling desires of love and lust. Intense jolts shot up his spine and he pumped his hand in time with the perfect rhythm of her stuttered breathing and his thrumming heart.

Logan squeezed his eyes tighter, his jaw flexing as he released an anguished sob. He could continue this for a long time, but the baser part of him needed to let go. "Fuck," he groaned, desperate to temper the volume. Lost in the vibrancy of her strangled responses, he clutched the phone with one hand, the other hand fisting roughly over his flesh. Bringing himself closer, he stroked his thumb across the underside of his dick, forcing a breath between his parted lips. The muscles in his hips contracted, thrusting against his quickened pace. "Say it. Tell me what you want," he panted urgently.

"Come, Logan," she begged in a whisper.

Suddenly his eyes sprang open and he lost himself in a partially incoherent chant, huffing his intense pleasure in her ear, "Oh God! Oh God, Oh God! I love you, Veronica. I love you." His orgasm ripped through him, passing across his body like electricity through an open circuit. He bathed his hand and his stomach in the warmth of it, throwing his head back and bowing his spine, groaning low in his chest as the rest of it cut through him.

Veronica was silent as Logan lay catching his breath. Finally he pushed himself off her bed, grabbed a box of Kleenex off her desk, and began to clean up the mess. "So how mad are you going to be when you see what I left on your sheets?" He laughed, the sound as labored as his breathing had been moments before. "Should I wash them before I go?"

"No!" He could tell she was grinning wide, her eyes most likely sparkling mischievously. In his mind, it was the smile she wore when she had a secret. "Knowing your history, I think it's a safe bet you've never done a load of laundry in your life. I don't want you ruining my pretty percale." Logan tried to imagine her, a solid blush spreading across her cheeks, lip jutting out into a pout, worried about her linens.

"Touché, Mars. Touché."

"Hey, Logan. Wallace just stepped off the elevator, so I've gotta go."

"Where are _you _anyway?" He leered, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Umm, hotel lobby? Stuck awkwardly behind some rubber tree plant?"

Logan laughed harder, imagining her surrounded by an influx of people, blushing fifty shades of crimson while secretly getting her boyfriend off. "Jesus, Veronica. You're incredible. Incredible and twisted. I had no idea you were so bent!" Realizing what he'd just said, he stopped abruptly, worried that she wouldn't hear the adoration and admiration he'd meant to convey.

"Bent?" She gasped, "Me, bent! You have some nerve." She hrmphed adorably and then added with a smirk, "You're right about one thing though, I am just a little incredible, aren't I?"

"You really have no idea how amazing you are." he glowed, his lips quirking in wonder. "Veronica." His voice dropped with sudden concern, "That was okay, wasn't it? I mean, you really wanted that, didn't you?"

"Starshine, allow me to clarify any ambiguity," she murmured softly, "that was just foreplay." Veronica took a deep breath, holding it solidified within her chest. The momentary silence filled Logan with an aching desire; it was a chasm that could be filled so easily, if only she'd give him just a little more. And that's when she whispered, "I love you, Logan. I love you and that was just the beginning."

Maybe his jaw shouldn't have dropped, or his heart shouldn't have accelerated, or his vision shouldn't have clouded, but it did. He fell back onto her bed, brushing his hand over his eye.

It was possible she'd known he'd react that way, that she'd shock him into an impossible silence, but she whispered it again, "I love you, Logan. I have to go, but I wanted you to know."

He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he heard her kiss the phone as she hung up.

**----**

Barefoot, Logan padded through the kitchen, wishing, to no one in particular, that Keith wouldn't be there to greet him. Happily, he found only Backup, curled up on the couch. The dog raised his head and gave Logan a once over, then promptly resumed snoring.

He found his clothes, neatly folded on the island, and as he reached for them, he spotted the note.

**Logan,**

**Last night, after you went to bed, I moved the Xterra into the lot.**

**Tonight's lasagna night, if you're interested. It's really too much for one man alone. Incredibly enough, not so much for one Veronica. I'll never know where she puts it.**

**Keith **

It was simple, just like the words Veronica had spoken only minutes ago, but, as Logan Echolls stood in the middle of the Mars' kitchen – where everything felt foreign yet exquisitely real –experiencing something he hadn't felt in a long, long time – hope for the future.

Maybe Mr. Mars would ask Logan to call him Keith, and begin to trust him and teach him things he'd never learned. Maybe Logan would let Keith do it without feeling resentful. Maybe Veronica would stop running away and stand by him, even when things got rough. Maybe she'd teach him all the things he'd never learned about love. There was really no way to be sure, but when Logan stepped out the front door and into the sunlight, he felt happy: on the surface and in his heart. And for today, that was enough.


End file.
